


The Sweetheart Affair

by stunningepiphanies



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:26:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7475121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunningepiphanies/pseuds/stunningepiphanies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1966: A honeypot mission doesn't go wrong, exactly, but it's still unpleasant for everyone involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetheart Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This started as the reply to a prompt I got on tumblr in, ah, December? Hahaha, it kinda got away from me, oops.

"Honestly, I have no idea what you were thinking." Solo shook his head sadly, thumbing through a few photos of one Wilhelm Gerber, accountant to the rich, famous, and evidently nefarious. He was also, to Illya's everlasting chagrin, Gaby's first schoolgirl romance. "He's not that good looking. He's not anything looking, really." Solo held one photo out at arm's length and made a show of squinting at it, like he was trying to see something hidden in the shades of grey. 

Gaby shot him a sour look, but she didn't deny it. Willi _was_ remarkably unremarkable. Not ugly, not handsome, not even particularly interesting. He was neither tall nor short, with the kind of brown hair that started looking colorless if you stared at it too long. Even his clothing, if surveillance photos were to be believed, were so nondescript they bordered on suspicious. If you were to walk past him on the street, it wouldn't even be a blip on your radar. Probably why he'd done so good keeping all those black books, Illya thought. He flew so hard under the radar you wouldn't expect him of anything, not even parking poorly. 

Solo passed the file along, but Illya only gave the stack of papers a cursory glance. He’d read it already, long before Solo puttered in fifteen minutes late with a hangover and an Irish coffee. "He looks like every accountant I've ever met." That is to say, nondescript and bland. Vaguely beige in personality and appearance. Not a single one ever had anything of interest to say when forced into conversation with one. Generally, they tended to snap like twigs when you pushed for information. They always made for an easy job, though, especially in his hands.

Or it would be, if they just let _him_ take the lead on this mission instead of Gaby. Illya's fingers tapped ominously on the file while he stewed, eyes flitting from Gaby, to Waverly, and back to his woman. 

"I was just a child, Solo. You probably weren’t dating chic, mysterious women at 17.” Gaby sniffed, then turned her gaze squarely onto the table. “Besides, we were only together for a few months, before he moved. I haven't seen him in years."

The tiny, almost invisible rational part of Illya's mind conceded the point. Teenage love was strange and impermanent, as he well knew. At 18, he’d had an inexplicable affair with a stilyaga girl three apartments down from his mother. By all rights, it never should've happened. She was defiant, bright, and a troublemaker. He was the good student, on a fast track to success despite his father’s misdeeds. It was a miracle it hadn't blown up in his face. 

However, there was a much louder and bullheaded part of his mind that insisted this man was going to run off with his woman and needed to be stopped by any means necessary. By force, possibly, though Gerber looked doughy enough that a solid slap on the back might do him in. Maybe threats would work. Oh, there was an idea, threats. No wet work involved, and Waverly wouldn't even need to cover anything up. 

If Waverly could hear him right now, he might call that plan "somewhat misguided." Solo might just call it "par for the course, really". And Illya was just starting to have some concerns about his co workers intruding on his own private thoughts. 

"Still. Going in as herself is not good idea." He crossed his arms petulantly, sinking back into his overstuffed chair. "We were exposed in Rome. Too risky."

"Actually," Waverly interjected with a small smile, "everyone who could have exposed our dear Gaby is either dead or in our custody. As far as the world is concerned, Ms Teller is still a good East German girl and the fiancee of a fair-to-middling Russian architect." Their director paused to take a sip of his tea, the very picture of a man definitely not serving one of his best agents on a platter to a mediocre goon. "A Russian architect who will be far too busy studying the architecture of Florence to pay much attention to her, mind." He sniffed. "And you know what happens when you don't cherish a woman, Mr Kuryakin. " 

Gaby bristled next to him, but she didn't protest. Clearly, the two had gone over all of this before bringing the plan to the rest of the team. "He'll fall for it easily. He always wants what isn't his, especially women." There was no mistaking bitterness there, but it went by uncommented on. Probably with great difficulty on Napoleon's part. 

"You still haven't told us why you were ever with him," Solo said, poking at Gaby with an accusatory finger. "It can't be his shining personality or dashing good looks." 

Gaby made a face, but couldn't quite meet his eyes. "It's none of your business who I've been with, or why." The faint flush on her cheeks still said enough, though. 

"Come on now, we've all made bad mistakes with partners. It's not _embarassing_."

Her eyes flicked to Illya, gaze almost pleading. "You know how it is, you remember?” Then she turned to Solo, a little more indignant. “There's just so much you can't do, and of _course_ banning everything just makes you want to go seek it out, when you're a teenager.”

Illya suspected he _did_ know, but he kept silent. Solo just looked like he would explode if Gaby didn't start explaining. 

"He had, you know, he had…contraband. Records, mostly." 

Silence. 

Napoleon _howled_ with laughter, and for some reason Illya had the most peculiar impulse to punch him in the throat. He did, as she had said, remember how difficult it was being a teenager, but he never had the impulse to get his hands on banned music or books. Deep familial shame did that to a person.

Illya shrugged. "I never did anything like that. I had better things to do."

Solo snorted, finally down from his cackling fit. "What, infiltrating the chess club for unsavory activities against the state?" 

"You know, I would not mind your jokes if they were actually _funny_. You're just saying words now."

"I'm sorry, I'm _hilarious_."

"Actually, I think you're both unfunny arse-"

"Gentlemen, Ms Teller. _Please._ “ Waverly interrupted the three, looking like he was fighting an oncoming migraine and losong. "If you're all quite through, we're on a tight schedule. So if I could _please_ continue...“

The three stopped their bickering, and to Waverley's delight they even bothered to look a little shamefaced. 

"As I was saying, Miss Teller will be reconnecting with her old flame, after a few days of being so tragically left alone by her husband." Illya made some sort of disapproving noise, but the director waved it away with a flick of the wrist. "We know he keeps duplicates of his work somewhere in either his personal residence or his offices. Solo, Kuryakin, your job will be to find out where."

Gaby and Napoleon nodded in understanding, but Illya still stewed. If they were doing the reconnaissance, why not just let them break in and grab what they needed? Ridiculous. 

"Once we have the location, Gaby will get in and photograph the necessary documents we need. I have a list of names here we _must_ have, but if you see anything else that looks interesting... " Waverly let the thought fade away, taking the moment to sip at his lukewarm cup of tea. U.N.C.L.E. was always in the business of storing secrets for a rainy day. 

Gaby nodded, pulling the second stack of documents toward her. "So, I'll sneak in after dark, grab these names, and be on my way."

"Ah, no. Not exactly." Waverley sounded impersonally apologetic, in that way he always did when he had to give put orders he found _unpleasant_. “I need you to gain his confidence and trust, for the future. We are anticipating a need to possibly extract him from his situation in the coming months. We need your cover intact after this, so you'll just be photographing the necessary information, and recording the rest." He stiffed, shuffling some papers on his desk. "We'll have you in town for a month, after which Mr Kuryakin will wrap up his sketches and notes and take you back to your cozy little love nest in Moscow. Allegedly.”

Gaby stiffened, all traces of annoyance replaced by the seeds of tension and apprehension. 

"Ms Teller, I'll trust you to do whatever is necessary to complete this mission." He smiled grimly, trusting his meaning had hit home. It had, of course. This was always how Waverly put these kinds of orders on his agents. A humorless smile, some vague notions of trust and necessity- it's all very British, really. He'd rather not outright admit the unpleasantness, just dance around it with diplomacy.

This was not the first time Mr Waverly had asked such a thing of Gaby. That had happened only weeks after the Istanbul mission, when they needed to get a French diplomat in such a compromising state that she'd do _anything_ to keep it hushed up. Gaby performed admirably, enough that even Solo was impressed. It had deeply bothered Illya then, but they all had to do these kinds of things. 

When the pair started seeing each other in earnest, in secret, it became easier to separate his emotions from the job. There had been those two months in Los Angeles where Gaby was the up and coming girl of the week on the arm of a war-profiteering producer; they made it through fine, though a bit physically worse for wear. Then there was a handful of weeks she played secretary and mistress for a lawyer in Hong Kong, and even then Illya carried on like normal. Because, of course, that's what it was. Normal. Part of the job.

Illya himself had had targets as a part of his work for U.N.C.L.E. A mafia wife in New York well over her head. Three Ukrainian models in Milan that were far more devious than anyone would expect. An Irish radical with his eye on something far bigger than England. Never once had Gaby been petulantly jealous, not like he was being right now. Why did this time have to be so different? 

Gaby sunk into her seat, not so much dejected as she was unenthused. This, at least, Illya could be content with. Most people never wanted to be in the same room with their old lovers again, much less the same bed. 

"Now, " Waverly continued, shaking off the grimness of the last few moments, "if any of you have further questions after the plane lands, contact me by the usual means.” He stood, ushering the three out of his office like a mother duck with her children. “If you don't mind, I've a few calls to make. Solo, you can nurse that hangover in the airport.”

Illya snorted. So much for British delicacy. 

\---

The plane to Florence was a quiet affair, for certain values of quiet. Solo was settled far from the happy couple, where he could shamelessly flirt with stewardesses and treat his hangover with more whiskey. Illya folded himself into a too-small window seat so Gaby wouldn't have to spend the entire flight squished against the side of the plane. It was fine- he needed the extra legroom, but in his frustrated state it was easy to forgo comfort to prolong his misery. 

“You do not need to do this, you know,” he muttered to her as the plane ascended. “You can drug him and lie. Is easy.”

“No, Illya, I have to.” His foul mood was catching. Ever since the meeting, she was spiraling into more and more frustration. Every time he said something about how he could do this better, or insisted he take the lead on anything- packing, driving, choosing their tour routes- she got shorter, snapped replies to anything she was asked. “I'm not a child, Illya, or a helpless girl. I've done this before.” 

“Well, this is different. He knows you.” He was idly aware of fingers tapping on his right knee. 

“So?”

“So, he loved you once, he could-”

That did it. Gaby swung around, eyes blazing with righteous indignation, ready to burn twin holes into his skull. “Illya,” she hissed, low enough to be hidden under the chatter of stewardesses and other passengers, “if you think, for a single _minute_ , that I am stupid enough to be taken in by that charmless idiot-”

_Tap, tap, tap._

“-not only are you stupid, you’re too insecure to even be on this mission.”

_Tap, tap, tap._

“If you're going to let yourself be compromised, we can call Waverly and-”

“No, no.” He held up a hand, putting an temporary halt on her stream of anger. Red blurred the edge of his vision, but he pushed on. “I'm. No. I did not mean you were going to do something, I just don't trust the man.” It was simple. She was an excellent spy, he never doubted it. But this was her actual life. They’d fallen in love on a mission too, hadn’t they? If she would just _listen_ -

Gaby shook her head in disbelief, squinting at her partner like he was simple. He didn't like it one bit, it made him feel ridiculous. Irrational. “That's the point.” She huffed a humorless laugh. “Neither does Waverly, or the German government, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Drinks, Signora?”

Both spies turned to the smiling stewardess very suddenly hovering next to their seats. Gaby blinked, then quickly pasted on a smile almost as bright as their hostess’. “I'll take a gin and tonic, _bitte_ , with lime of you have it. And my husband will have a vodka.” Illya opened his mouth to protest, but was quickly silenced by a heel to the top of his foot. “He doesn't speak English, you know.”

The stewardess smiled at them both blandly, blissfully unaware of any strife between the two. “Of course, it is not a problem.”

“I do not need a drink,” he hissed to Gaby once the stewardess was out of earshot. 

She looked him up and down sourly. “Well, I do. I’ll need more if you're going to keep being a child about this.”

There was a pinpoint of a headache threading behind Illya’s eyes, he could just feel it. He groaned, pinching at the bridge of his nose in frustration. He took one, two, three deep breaths, calming himself enough to be a reasonable human again. The red blur in his mind’s eye slowly receded, and the ball of tension and frustration in his chest eased to a more manageable golf ball size. “Fine. I will not- it-” He huffed. “Sorry.”

“Good.” Gaby gave him a curt little nod, accepting his half-assed apology with relative grace. She took advantage of the lull in conversation then to light a cigarette, something to do with her hands I'm the absence of guns or car parts. She took a long drag, closing her eyes in relief. “You’ll still be drinking the vodka. It makes you manageable.”

\--

The morning after they arrived, Illya and Gaby began the mission in earnest. While Gaby slept, he drew up plans for the next few days, routes they could take that hit key sites of interest, but took him close to locations surveillance noted Gerber frequented. He even took the time to make some half finished architectural sketches, that on casual observation would pass as professional. If they both had to go off this script Waverly wrote up, Illya was going to make sure they did it with obnoxious perfection. 

The easiest part of this farce was actually looking like a couple. It was hard, that first time around. Gaby still hadn’t gotten over her undercover jitters and they were so uncertain with one another; all those little loving details, the casual physical affection, the loving glances, they all got lost. He still submitted that it was partially her fault they were rooted out. Who would know someone's body language better than their own uncle? Digressions aside, it was simple now. It was genuine, and so it wasn’t hard to convince the casual passers-by they were just another couple on holiday taking in the sights. Even with the fight on the airplane, Gaby had no problems playing the doting, attentive fiancée that day. Illya had even gone a step beyond this time and bothered to read up on the architecture in question, in case he was subjected to another round of interrogation. This wouldn't be a replay of the Spanish Steps, not this time. 

“And this,” Illya said, gesturing to a grand church in front of them, “is Basilica of San Lorenzo. Built by an architect named Brunelleschi for the Medici family, in early 15th century. They say it is one of the oldest churches in Florence.”

“Well, it’s not very impressive from this angle, is it?” Gaby frowned up at the building, judgment clear and harsh in her eyes. The building was grand in scale, but the dull, exposed stone contrasted sharply with the rest of the square. It wasn't quite something you'd expect of a grand Italian building. “They forgot to plaster it."

Illya shrugged his agreement. “Not from this side, no. They ran out of money before they finished the facade. The Medici, you see, were bankers. They wanted new, grand church to show off their wealth. One Medici family member, he goes to Russia for trade. He is so amazed by Russian cathedrals, that when he comes back he insists their architect make something even grander. So,” he said, gesturing one long arm up the hight of San Lorenzo, “Brunelleschi tries and tries, but alas. The Medici bankrupt themselves, and we are left with rough stone today. “

Gaby paused mid-step and looked up at her companion thoughtfully. “You know,” she said, a little surprised, “you’re getting better at this. I’m not sure if you're full of it or not.”

He preened. “You'll never know.”

She laughed, punching Illya in the ribs with enough force to make him wince. “Come on, Mr Architect, I've had enough lessons for today. I'm starving, and I want something on my stomach before we have to see Willi’s face again.” He just snorted- that was something they both agreed on, at least. 

Illya let Gaby pull him along through the square, reminded of a small but energetic dog trying to walk it's owner on a lead. She was a woman on a mission, and not even the panhandlers and over-enthusiastic souvenir sellers could slow her down. It was mildly concerning, seeing her like this. She was only this single minded on high stress missions, or when they’d had an argument. As far as he could tell, it was neither option- unless, of course, he'd manage to gravely offend her during his half-bullshit lecture.

“Gaby.” He pulled on her arm gently, slowing her brisk trot down until they were back at a leisurely stroll. She looked up, anxious impatience all over her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed one large finger against her lips. “Slow down. You look suspicious.” She didn't, not really, but he'd been enjoying the day so far. He could almost pretend they really were just a happy couple on vacation, taking in the exotic sights on their honeymoon. It was easier to than thinking about how, within weeks, the woman on his arm would be in bed with an old lover while he listened in. 

Gaby pressed into his side, but she kept Illya’s new pace. “I'm just eager to get on with this thing,” she confessed, watching a pair of children run down the lane shouting after a loose dog. “I'm not very excited about all of this, either. I never like to do these, but….” 

Gaby trailed off, lost in a tornado of memories and anxiety. For the first time since they received this assignment, Illya gave a thought to how his lover must be feeling. He was so busy feeling bad for himself and nursing his own ego, he'd never considered that this could be hard for her. What would his mother say about all this selfishness?

She'd be so ashamed. 

“He was my first, I'm sorry to say. I never thought I would have to look him in the face again.” Gaby craned her neck to look up at him properly. “No adult woman should have to subject herself to the man she let take her virginity. It's embarrassing all around.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course not.” She heaved a pained sigh, and looked away to follow another young couple up ahead of them. “He knew me. And I _am_ me. Except I'm not.”

“You are nervous, because you have to be yourself in different life again.” It was becoming clearer now, the real issue. Not only did she have to face a part of her old life, she had to play act again as Gaby Teller-Schmidt, the good East German girl who’s only crime was a fondness for Western music. He could see how it would get confusing and more than a little painful. Gaby started, surprised he parsed her anxiety so easily. She nodded, but didn't reply. No need to, really. 

They continued on in silence after that, watching the citizens of Florence go about their daily lives, oblivious to the international intrigue strolling by them. How many of these people were living fake lives, too? How many were playing roles, putting on masks in the morning for the world and living their real lives behind drawn curtains and closed doors? Was it really any different than what he was doing, in the end? 

“It must have been hard for you,” Illya offered, after several minutes of contemplation. 

Gaby looked up, brow furrowed. “What was?”

“Living in secret for so long, working for Waverly. I was undercover in New York for years, but I did not need to be myself.” He gave her arm a little squeeze. “But you did very good job. No one ever suspected a thing until the end.

That got a laugh out of her, and he could feel some of the nervous energy melt from her small frame. Good. Gaby melted into his side, pressing a kiss into his shoulder- the closest thing to his face she could even reach. 

“Well, thank you. I tried, but let me tell you. The way the Stasi act, you'd think being a British spy is illegal. They make everything harder than it needs to be.”

\---

The rest of the day was spent lazily touring the city, all anxiety forgotten for the day. The bottle and a half of wine at lunch helped matters too, as did the fairly discreet and unfortunately quick tryst in the Uffizi. While Gaby fixed her smudged lipstick in front of Venus, he couldn't help but be a little smug. All these people staring at a painting and they were missing the real work of art right next to them: medium, silk and Chanel No. 5.

There were still a few hours until dinner, so they both decided to head back to the hotel for a shower and maybe another quick round or two. Not that the gallery hadn't been thrilling, but apparently Illya couldn't quite enjoy himself while being stared down by Boticelli cherubs and long dead Italians. No, that was Cowboy’s thing. He assumed.

“...and she says, ‘No, this is the store with no bread. The one with no milk is down the street!.’” Gaby cackled shamelessly, mindless of the looks they were getting from other tourists on the street. 

Illya just snorted, and continued pulling her to the entrance of their hotel. “I've heard it. Is funnier in Russia, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” She rolled her eyes heaven ward, as if she were praying for new material. “Alright then, why do we call you our Soviet brothers and not-”

“Gaby! Gaby Schmidt, is that you?”

They froze.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I've never been to Florence, but I've had enough renaissance history and architecture classes to half bullshit my way through it. Forgive any inconsistencies, I am small and very tired. 
> 
> 2) The _stilyagi_ were a Russian teen subculture from the late 40s, and mostly the 50s. They were obsessed with American asthetic and particularly western music. They were characterized by their bold and almost exaggerated fashion choices, based on what they saw from Western media. Illya would have been too old to have been a teen during the heyday of the stilyagi, but he overlaps juuuust enough that I can fudge it. Imagine, goody two shoes with a bad girl. Of course he would. 
> 
> 3) Gotta love communist jokes.


End file.
